Hi. The A-team have gone off to have fun in the fields, leaving myself and a few other unfortunates locked in the office with the brooms to keep the place clean and tidy. While they're running around reviewing the likes of Muse and Gorillaz we'd like you lot to help us get a flavour of the more offbeat parts of the festival. Are there any would-be reviewers out there ready to press their sharp eyes and educated ears into service?

We're especially interested in hearing about the gigs the usual reviewers cannot reach, so if you have a burning opinion about anything you've seen, in person or even just on the telly, get writing. Send your long-considered views, your scribbly rants, your cloud-parting revelations (no longer than 200 words, please) to glastoreviews@guardian.co.uk and we'll publish the best ones we receive right here. If you don't fancy strutting your critical stuff on the main stage, you can always just heckle from the crowd in the comments section below. Hope to hear from you soon ...

First up, we have Chris Hodgson, who has plunged straight in among the headliners, with a savage tale of cruelty to Gorillaz:

If Amy Winehouse on the Pyramid stage a few years ago was like watching a car crash, watching Gorillaz headline the main stage on Glastonbury Friday 2010 was like watching the space shuttle explode.

To deal with Albarn's hubris on this scale, in this manner, Greek gods must have been involved. To work on an album of that ambition and that scope, and create in Plastic Beach arguably the best pop album in 30 years (since Bowie's Scary Monsters and Super Creeps), and while harnessing the wayward difficult talents of Mark E Smith and Lou Reed, borders on the divine. To expect this to be repeated one night only in a field in Somerset is asking for the cruellest of fates. Excruciating and tragic, it was impossible to look away.

And I blame Dizzee Rascal. Gorillaz were playing to his crowd after a masterful set. And they were obviously still Dizzee's crowd when the photo-montages of slaughtered dolphins and ecological disaster were shown, and the tens of thousands of England shirts played like instruments by Mr Rascal regarded the Arabian orchestra with confusion, and the sweet peace of White Flag with irritation. To 20-year-olds today a tribute to Dennis Hopper and Easy Rider meant as much as the Lady Chatterley's Lover court case meant to the 40-year-olds of today.

The suspicion remains that this set would have been a magnificent triumph for a Glastonbury crowd of the 80s, 90s or even a few years ago. But to today's Glastonbury party animal crowd, the Gorillaz characters and their modern flaws seem less like ironic comments on a dystopian pop culture and more like aspirational icons of today.

At the scene of supposedly their greatest triumph, there was no sign of the co-creator of Gorillaz, Jamie Hewlett. Half-interested guest appearances came and went with varying levels of depressing embarrassment but no room for Mr Hewlett. What does fate have in store for him? Whatever he may think is coming from his obvious interest in The Omen and The Exorcist, nothing could be as cruel as what Damon Albarn suffered on Friday night.

Joe Woof provides a Dickensian overview:

It was the best of times, it was the driest of times, but most of all, it was the gayest of times. Kylie, Scissor Sisters, Pet Shop Boys, We Have Band, NYC Downlow brought all the gays to the farm. The weather meant more pectorials than that "300" cartoon. Grindr told me how many yards the rainbow of homosexuals were at any one time. The only downer was Gorillaz proving they were more effective as holograms. From woo hoo to boo - hoo, Damon was the only sad arse in the field.

Susan Barton, meanwhile, has been feeling the emotion:

My 6th in a decade.

Maybe it was just the sunshine, but it was the best yet. Increased camping space on the west side meant that we didn't wake up to find another tent pitched virtually on top of us.

Maybe it is my age, but there were more acts I could sing along to: Rolf Harris, The Stranglers, Ray Davis, The Wurzels, The Lightning Seeds, Muse, and of course Stevie Wonder.

Maybe I lead a boring life, but sitting in the Cabaret Field watching a string of Mutoid recycled vehicles emerging is a thrillingly disturbing experience, as is watching a swarm of human bees, a real garden gnome, giant bats on stilts and Australian lifeguards shouting at the crowds.

The real thrill of Glastonbury is always the music. It is a symbiotic affair between the acts and the audience. They know that you have probably travelled a long way to spend five days in conditions of extreme privation to see them. You know that they have agreed to perform for a vastly reduced fee, with sympathy for the overall concept.

As a result, there is already a huge bond between audience and act, which "Hello Glastonbury", followed by a huge roar can only cement.

Something special happens when they give the performance of their lives, and in doing so, get the audience response they deserve.

If hairs have stood up on the back of audience's necks, and acts are practically in tears, then it is legendary. The magic of Glastonbury is that It usually happens several times during the course of the festival.

Chris Hodgson is back, and this time he's delving into the seamier, helium-filled side of the festival to reveal his concerns about Paloma Faith:

BTW - nicest surprise of the festival, and I'm not proud of liking this.

Pity Paloma Faith, the second-rate Amy Winehouse rip-off of last year. She and her publicist are obviously so desperate to be further up than second on the bill on Sunday morning (after regular irritating exposure on TV this year) she appears on the Pyramid stage in a sequinned white fetish outfit beneath two large helium balloons which she has to drag around the stage after her.

It is desperate stuff and for me works completely.

"If there is any kind of strong wind I'll be blown right over into the next field," she promises with a slightly daft voice after opening with My Legs Are Weak. That old predictable sultry retro-showgirl persona is gone, replaced by nothing less entertaining than a fearless, fantastically attractive female Frank Spencer routine equipped with (it turns out) great songs, a charismatic backing band and a wonderful voice.

It's an act that is obviously sinking but it's going out with a real flourish. Paloma Faith will never be Amy Winehouse, but if she successfully uses helium to crack the charts rather than errr... crack then I at least will be smiling.

As the crowds burst out of the sides of the John Peel tent the look of awe on the faces of Mumford & Sons was priceless. It's refreshing in this age of cool and ego to see some genuine emotion from a band, and gratitude towards the fans that put them there. And Mumford & Sons repaid their debt with an explosive performance that would lurch from the raw heartbreaking emotion of Winter Winds, to a good old fashion hoe-down and singalong of Sign No More. The pace and energy of their set left barely time to breath, and before we knew it everything was over. But we were left with grins as wide as that of the bands, and a glorious feeling that we had been part of one of the best moments of their lives.

But just when we thought it was all smiles, Ian Rowland has a bone to pick with us ...

How I wish the media would stop referring to Glasto as if it's essentially just a big music concert. This is so misleading. Sure, some good bands played there (famous or not) and many people enjoyed them. But this is only a tiny part of what went on for three days and three long, gorgeously hot nights in over 1000 acres of Somerset fields. This unhelpfully narrow focus smacks of celeb-culture and favours for friends in PR. I had a great time at this year's festival and barely paid any attention to the music. I loved the Circus and Cabaret tents, the amazing Walkabouts that involved a team of 400 different performers and artists, the incredible late-night scenes around Arcadia and Avalon (including the human lightning machines!) and the astonishing, hilarious late-night cabaret at Mavericks, which made 'normal' telly light entertainment seem like something from Caxton's era. Glastonbury is so much more than a few big-name acts and celebs. It is a celebration of pretty much every performing art you can imagine (plus a few more). Even in bad weather, it is simply the greatest party on Earth. In glorious sunshine, it was paradise.

Returning to the music, if that's OK with everyone, we come to the amazingly alliterative adventures of Matthew Dyas. A convert to "Swedish hip-hop/swing" – as well as incongruous sartorial stylings – he likes to move it, Movits!:

I went to Glastonbury, and yes, I watched Wonder, saw Snoop and gazed at the Gorillaz but the real highlight for me were a band I stumbled upon by accident.Late one night after a day in the sun I happened up on a band called Movits! I usually consider myself a cultured fellow, but I can honestly say I'd never listened to any Swedish hip hop/swing bands before. That's all changed. What a revelation, I'd never heard anything like it before. A Swedish man in a tuxedo and a bobble hat rapping about "Frank and Sammy Davis" accompanied by another on a saxophone. After dancing and a good attempt at joining in, alas, the set came to an end. It was a sad moment I thought, leaving the tent to trudge off to Arcadia.After a bit more wandering and a lot more stumbling, the night was coming to an end but there surrounded by twisted metal and fire-breathing machines was my favourite Swedish hip-hop/swing band performing their second gig of the night. It was even better than the first. Movits!